Recluse
by Aalon
Summary: Set in Season 7, this is the second story in the Monster trilogy, picking up where that story concluded.
1. Chapter 1

**Recluse: Chapter 1**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 **A/N:** This story picks up right after the conclusion of Monster, and is the second story in the Monster trilogy. If you haven't read Monster, please do so before continuing.

Set in Season 7, this continues an AU take on the disappearance of Richard Castle from the end of Season 6, and its aftermath at the conclusion of Monster. Thank you – I hope you enjoy this journey. I'm posting all eleven chapters at once, to provide some reading during the downtime I hope everyone has in the coming week.

Merry Christmas to all. Many of you have been such a blessing to me these past few months. God bless you richly – you know who you are, and you are dear to me, now.

 _ **Monday night - June 2, 2014, 6:07 p.m. in New York City**_

Detective Kate Beckett sits on the large sofa in the living room of Castle's loft. Technically it is his loft, but realistically she calls the place home now. She relaxes in front of the television, her long legs curled up underneath her, wearing black jeans and a soft, tan-colored button down blouse. The top two buttons are unbuttoned, and she holds a glass of zinfandel in her left hand, a remote control in her right. Her gaze alternates between the television screen in front of her, and her almost-husband, who sits roughly fifteen feet away in a chair next to the expansive window that overlooks the streets below.

Richard Castle is lost in his thoughts, increasingly weary from his nightmares that continually assault him whether awake or asleep. His gaze is disoriented. Yes, his eyes rest on the people passing by, but he doesn't see them. The cacophony of noise below is clearly audible, but he doesn't hear it. By all appearances, the writer is sitting in his home, comfortably lost in thought.

In reality, said writer is hundreds of miles away, to the south, still trapped on an island – he sees the fence, he hears the lions, and he smells the blood on his hands, feels its sticky texture – blood of another human being – a human being that he has killed.

He wears blue jeans and a non-descript tee shirt, and sits barefoot in this spot, where he has been parked for the past hour. She knows that he is grateful to be free, to be alive, but guilty nonetheless for the method he willingly – and in premeditated fashion – orchestrated for his release. In the first hours of freedom, he was able to justify his actions. Now, as time – even just over five days – has passed, she sees his justification growing weaker and weaker in his mind. Worse – his learning that she was just minutes from finding him, freeing him, has given fuel to the battering thoughts that are squeezing the breath from him.

Kate's thoughts are shaken to the present moment as she hears the name of her lover on the television. She shifts her gaze back to the 6 p.m. local newscast, and frowns as she sees the unflattering picture of the man across the room displayed in the upper right-hand corner of the television broadcast. The scene on television is one of a local fishing craft now docked back onshore. The female voice of the anchorwoman is heard describing the scene.

" _Our next story is a sad one, and one that appears to be a continuation of a very frightening series of events that attacked New York City in the past two weeks. The body of missing District Attorney Walter Daniels has been found this afternoon, roughly a mile offshore by a tourist boating operation. The DA's body was attached – tied at the arm - to a life preserver, with a gunshot wound in his shoulder. Autopsy results are pending, to determine the exact cause of death, but initial reports by sources indicate that death by drowning may be the cause. Sources also say that the body was in some state of disrepair, possibly from sea-life._

The scene shifts back to the newsroom, where the anchorwoman sits next to her sharply-dressed co-anchor, who is quiet for this piece. She continues now, eyes facing the camera, as her monotonous tone drones on, her image, and that of her co-anchor now filling the lower portion of the screen, while an image of Senator William Bracken replaces that of Richard Castle in the upper right corner.

" _Now, it is unclear what District Attorney Daniels was doing out in the ocean, or how he got there, whether he was there of his own volition, whether he fell overboard or was cast off. Regardless, given the brutal crusade against the city's underworld figures during the absence of Richard Castle, the fact that the DA prosecuting the case against Senator William Bracken turns up dead, and knowing the antagonistic relationship that the fiancée of Mr. Castle, Detective Kate Beckett of the 12_ _th_ _Precinct of the NYPD, has with the once-again free Senator – well, one can only wonder exactly what role – if any – Mr. Castle or his associates may have had in the death of the city's district attorney?"_

The side camera pans her image, and she turns to face the new camera, as she continues.

" _Back at our nation's capital, Senator Bracken, who was – just this past week - released from prison after all charges against him had been dismissed, had this to say."_

The face of Senator Bracken appears front and center on the screen with an image of Detective Kate Beckett now inserted in the upper right corner. The taped interview with the senator rolls.

" _I certainly don't want to cast aspersions that Mr. Castle is somehow involved, since by all appearances he was missing during this entire time. Then again, perhaps that absence on his part is simply convenient – as it is also very clear that his fiancée is willing to grab any straw – including doctoring decades-old cassette tapes – to bring about her brand of revenge against me. And make no mistake – my incarceration was not an attempt at justice on her part. It was her attempt at misguided revenge,"_ he concludes, and pauses before uttering his final words.

" _As is this scar on my face."_

An on-site reporter in Washington, D.C. now comes onscreen, with closing comments.

" _When asked to explain the aforementioned scar on his face, Senator Bracken simply frowned and walked away, indicating that the interview was over,"_ the reporter begins. _"Whatever is going on between Senator Bracken and the 12_ _th_ _Precinct, one thing is clear: It has gotten highly personal, it has escalated, and it now includes a large and growing number of casualties."_

The scene shifts back to the newsroom in New York, as the anchorwoman takes control back, closing out the segment.

" _That it does, Ramona. Thank you for this report from our nation's capital. Clearly, we have yet to see the end of this sordid tale, and we can only wonder where this will turn next."_

Kate angrily punches the off button on the remote, and immediately glances over at the still unmoving figure that sits next to the window. If he has heard any of the newscast, he is not letting on.

She drops the remote onto the sofa next to her and places her glass of wine on the coffee table in front of her. She pulls her legs from underneath her and places them on the floor. From this sitting position, her head drops into her hands, a look of anguish on her face. This is getting far, far out of hand.

Sure, there were likely going to be repercussions from what now - in the media and court of public opinion – appears to be a case of misguided and faulty arrest and prosecution. An embarrassment to the city? Yeah, that was easily predicted. Gates has already warned her that things could get ugly, as the precinct is not at the top of the most-favored list at city hall right now. Even Weldon is feeling the heat on this one.

But a premediated plot against a standing Senator, with insinuations that a number of deaths – including that of the district attorney? No, that wasn't expected. She smiles sadly at the words of the Senator.

" _I certainly don't want to cast aspersions that Mr. Castle is somehow involved,"_ he had said – yet then proceeded to do just that. Cast aspersions that the writer is involved. As is his fiancée. And perhaps the 12th Precinct of the New York Police Department.

She shakes her head sadly, waiting for the next phone call that she knows will be coming from Captain Victoria Gates – any minute now.

"We are going to have to get out of here," she thinks to herself, her mind immediately traveling to the safety and privacy of Castle's Hamptons getaway, knowing that the likelihood that she might have a little bit of free time coming up is increasing with each passing minute.

"Rick?" she calls to him.

She frowns, as he makes no move to acknowledge her. He is lost in his world right now, a haunting world that points an incriminating finger at him. She knows that it will only get worse when he hears the news of the deceased district attorney. She idly wonders if the DA's death is an accident. And if it isn't, then who would have been responsible? Her mind immediately turns to Jackson Hunt. She knows that Hunt is responsible for the brutal slayings of certain elements of the criminal underworld in the past couple of weeks – a part of his frightening siege through the city searching for his missing son. But would Hunt extend this onslaught to elected officials? Would he extend this to the city's district attorney?

And if so, why? To what end?

She closes her eyes, and for the next four or five minutes, she allows herself to drift away, ever hopeful that a quick nap will momentarily take her away from tonight's reality. It is short-lived, as her own thoughts continue their barrage through her mind.

She opens her eyes again, finding her fiancée. He has not moved, and from this distance, she even wonders if he has blinked. A crazy thought, of course. But these have become crazy times – even for Detective Kate Beckett and Richard Castle. She glances at her phone, and for probably the tenth time today, she considers calling Dr. Carter Burke. The good doctor had done so well with her, helping her through a physical, mental and emotional train wreck a couple of years prior. Perhaps he could do the same with Castle. Then again, Dr. Burke is at the disposal of the NYPD – would it even be possible for him to see Castle? She shakes her head, knowing the likelihood of Captain Victoria Gates even signing off on such an idea is ludicrous, at best.

Her thoughts fall back on Jackson Hunt, and the district attorney.

"He is always such a wildcard," she muses out loud, wondering once again if he could be involved. She shakes her head, reaching back for her glass of wine, when her cell phone vibrates on the coffee table in front of her. She can't help but frown as she sees the name on the caller ID.

"Well, that certainly didn't take long," she mutters under her breath as she brushes strands of hair away from her ear and answers her phone, hearing the clipped voice on the other end. Yeah, things have gotten much worse.

"Yes sir, what can I do for you?" she begins, glancing over at her lover again, realizing that the one good piece of news, that piece that she needs to hold on to and focus on, is that he is alive, he is home. Now she just needs to help him get well.

 **A/N:** Sometimes I think we write – and read – fanfiction stories to get taken to a completely different world, with new possibilities, alternate realities and timelines, fantasy stories that could never be. However, sometimes these stories are just to give us a different take, a different viewpoint of an already familiar story. That's what the Monster trilogy is for me. I never thought that the writers really fleshed out the whole 'Castle-gone-missing' storyline. Even the ending left me a little lukewarm. Eventually, these three stories – beginning with Monster – came to mind.

Anyway, I hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday – whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah – be safe, have fun, hug your loved ones, be they friends or family.


	2. Chapter 2

**Recluse: Chapter 2**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Tuesday Afternoon - June 3, 2014, 2:04 a.m. at Richard Castle's Beach Home in the Hamptons**_

They sit on the sofa in the den, closed off from the world. Both are quiet, reflective, and grateful for each other's company.

Detective Kate Beckett had rustled Castle out of his dark reverie around seven o'clock last night, after her phone call with Captain Gates.

" _Kate, I need you to take a little time off,"_ Gates had told her. _"I don't believe any of what is being said, but I also know that in times like this, no one is interested in truth. Everyone is interested in blame. And right now, you and Mr. Castle are the easy targets."_

Kate Beckett understood completely. And she was still completely livid.

" _Even though he is sitting here, damn near in an emotional stupor, physically beaten to hell, and –"_

" _It doesn't matter, Kate,"_ Gates had interrupted. _"You know this. You know what happens when there is blood in the water."_

" _The sharks come,"_ Kate had replied silently.

" _And right now, you and Mr. Castle are the chum,"_ Gates had continued. Her voice was all business, but with a tinge of kindness at the same time.

" _I don't want my best detective dragged through the streets, hung in effigy. Get out of town. Let me know how I can reach you. But disappear. As of now, you are on paid leave of absence."_

She had sat, staring at the phone after the call, and then walked over to Castle, who still sat motionless at the window. Leaning over him, she had draped her arms around his neck, peppering his cheek with slow, loving kisses.

"Let's get out of here," she had whispered. Something about her voice, her breath, had shaken him back to the present, his eyes immediately crystalizing, life returning, offering just a hint of that familiar sparkle. She had blinked away tears as she pulled him up from the chair.

A half hour later, the two were in the Ferrari, blazing a quick getaway to the Hamptons, while Kate brought Castle up to speed on the latest from the newscast, and her conversation with Gates. Castle had remained quiet, for the most part. Arriving late to the beach house, they both fell exhausted into bed, and slept in until just after eleven o'clock this morning. Miraculous for both of them.

A quiet breakfast, and some dishes washed, a few kisses and touches shared, they had taken a long walk along the beach, still in their pajamas, the small waves breaking on the shoreline icing their feet. It had been a quiet walk – no words really have been necessary. Castle had felt her smaller hand intertwined with his own, and that had been enough.

Now, they sit together, back in his den, still quiet, floating in an easy silence with one another.

Rather, _he_ sits on the sofa, while she lays sideways, her head in his lap, her bare feet dangling off the other arm of the furniture piece. Neither has bothered to get out of their pajamas just yet.

There is no hurry, they aren't going anywhere. Or so they think.

He is being destroyed – absolutely obliterated – by the press. Many people have died during - because of - his absence.

No, he wasn't there when the deaths occurred – he was in captivity himself. But somehow that doesn't seem to matter. The deaths were too brutal.

No, these were not nice people who died – they were definitely of the criminal element. But they were absolutely innocent of anything having to do with Castle's absence. And yet they lost their lives because of that absence. Again, the deaths were just too brutal.

And then there is the death of the district attorney.

The morning news broadcast was typical of the general reaction on the eastern coast.

" _One has to take a second look at Richard Castle, and ask, what exactly do we know about the man? One has to wonder just what kind of people Richard Castle knows – what kind of people this novelist associates with, what kind of people has ties to – who would resort to such brutal violence to find him."_

The media is effectively casting a long and dark shadow across Castle's previously solid – and meticulously crafted – image and reputation. Suddenly, the realistic tone of his novels now beg the question: Is the source of his novels a savage world that he has personal knowledge of? Or is it just the fantastical imagination of a brilliant mind?

According to CNN, the answer, ironically, leans toward the former, because of Kate Beckett.

" _Knowing that Mr. Castle has taken much of his work on the Nikki Heat novels from the life of his fiancée, a detective with the New York Police Department, we can only surmise who else the author knows, and what life this man has led that gives him such a realistic, chilling look at the seedier side of the world."_

The ringing doorbell startles both, as Kate rises up, allowing Castle to stand, brush himself off, and head out of the den to the living room and the front door. Kate lays back on the sofa, closing her eyes, wondering how much worse things are going to get.

A minute later, a still surprised Castle returns to the den. He is not alone.

"Gina?" Kate exclaims in surprise. "What are you doing here?" she asks, standing. She doesn't mean the question in a derogatory manner. Fortunately, Gina Cowell doesn't take it as such.

She walks to Kate, offering her a genuine kiss on the cheek, and then takes her seat in the large leather arm chair adjacent to the sofa. Both her actions and her attire throw Kate off completely. The beautiful and always-meticulously-clothed blonde is dressed down, in jeans and a pullover shirt and . . . tennis shoes? She sits, not legs crossed in that elegant way of hers, but feet flat on the floor, her elbows resting on each knee, hands folded in front of her.

Castle sits down on the sofa, offering a hand to Kate, who joins him.

"I'm sorry," Gina begins, "I tried calling, as I told Richard," she says, glancing at her ex-husband and top novelist. "But there was no answer. And once the doorman back at Richard's loft told me that the two of you had left last night with suitcases . . . well, I figured this is where you had holed up."

"Holed up?" Castle questions, but quickly decides that her term is entirely accurate.

"We, and I mean we collectively, have a big problem," Gina continues, brushing a string of curly, golden locks away from her face.

"This . . . this situation has escalated way out of hand," she tells the couple. "I was called into a meeting at Black Pawn at six forty-five this morning. An early start for us, as you will attest, Richard."

He simply nods his head. He has a sinking feeling where this conversation is going.

"The pressure coming down on Black Pawn is incredible. It is like nothing I have ever seen," she continues. "We have already lost two key sponsorships for the Nikki Heat series, and another is threatening to pull all support for the company because of what has happened."

She places her gaze on Rick, and he involuntarily flinches from the familiar stare. There is an anger there, a fire just beginning to whisper across the embers. He has seen this anger on his ex-wife.

"I don't understand it," she continues. "But someone has a real hard-on for you, Richard, and I don't mean you, detective," she adds with a small smile, attempting to bring levity to the room. It works for a second, but it is she, herself, who then fans the flames brighter.

"They want you gone, Rick," she comments with disgust. "Believe me, I am doing everything I can, and not because you are my top seller," she continues. "You know this game, Rick. You leave, and another will take your place. They will put the full weight of the company behind him or her. No, they won't be as good as you, they won't be as fun as you. But it won't matter, because they want you out."

"This is unbelievable," Kate mutters, her head in her hands now.

"I agree, Detective," Gina replies, nodding her head. "I am fighting for him, please believe me –"

"I do," Castle says softly, drawing an appreciative smile from the publisher.

"Thank you, Rick – that means a lot," she tells him. "But it doesn't change the facts. This is short-sighted on their part at best, and unbelievably uncompassionate at worst, given what you yourself have just gone through. You look like hell, by the way."

"Feel like hell," he mutters, barely audible.

"What does this mean?" Kate asks, steering the conversation away from that road. At least for now. "Have they –"

"They want to release him, Kate," Gina tells her. Kate's wide-eyed expression is juxtaposed next to the knowing nod of the head of her companion. "They are bowing to the pressure – and hell, it's only been less than a week, dammit."

"Who is driving this, Gina?" Castle asks. "Is it Ed? Frank? I guess it really doesn't matter, but –"

"I'm not sure, Rick", she answers, interrupting. "But someone – likely one of those two – has a bone to pick with you somehow. Or . . ."

She pauses, not completing her thought. She casts a look at the detective.

"Or . . . someone is coercing them to act?" Kate says, completing the thought with a question of her own.

"Bracken?" Castle asks, glancing at Kate.

"I kind of doubt it," she replies, shaking her head. "Don't you? I mean, why, or how, would a Senator have his hands deep into a publishing company? And if it _were_ Bracken, don't you think he would have acted long before now?"

"I'm just piecing together what the newscasts are saying," Gina comments, "but I have to ask, why would Senator Bracken have it in for Rick? I mean, it's clear as day he is gunning for you, Detective. But why Rick?"

"Hurting Rick hurts me," Kate replies evenly, her eyes now darkening, giving the publisher her first real experience with the Beckett gaze. She can't stifle a small shiver.

"So, I'm out?" Rick asks – the sudden finality of it crashing down on him.

"Not yet," Gina tells him. "I was able to buy us seventy-two hours, until Friday. I told them that you don't kill your golden goose on a whim. They are meeting again Friday afternoon."

"What does your gut tell you?" he asks.

"You're the golden goose, and that goose is cooked," she tells him evenly. It's one of the things he has always – always – loved about Gina Cowell. Her seeming inability to sugarcoat things. He has never had to wonder what she is thinking, whether what she is saying is truthful.

"It's just a reprieve," she continues. "They aren't just running scared. They're . . . shit, Rick, they're flat out _angry_ , and I can't understand why. It's just so unfair, especially given what you have just gone through."

"You have no idea," Kate tells her, softly. The two women exchange a look – both immediately recognizing the utter irony, the sheer lunacy that somehow the two of them have become comrades – albeit temporarily – for the time being.

" _Later,"_ Kate mouths silently to Gina, who purses her lips with a subtle nod of her head.

"And believe it or not," Gina continues, 'this might not even be the worst news I can bring you."

"You're kidding, right?" Kate exhales.

"I wish I were, Kate," Gina replies. "I made a stop down the road at the local convenience store, just to pick up a fountain drink. I always forget how long a drive it is to get out here."

If there is any discomfort between the three were her statement, clearly a trip down memory lane, no one wades into that creek this moment.

"Anyway, there was a television hanging on the wall, tuned in to CNN," she tells Castle. "Seems they aren't your number one fan anymore." She turns her gaze to Kate. "Yours either. But that's not the problem."

"What _is_ the problem?" Kate asks, and she glances over to her partner. She has felt him stiffen up, and she looks into his eyes. That sad glaze from last night is returning. She shakes his arm, bringing him back to the moment. She can't lose him. Not now.

"The natives," Gina replies. "A number of locals in there were commenting about how they are harboring a fugitive in their quaint little community," she spits. "All that was missing were pitchforks and flaming torches. Restless natives are never a good thing. I think things are going to get ugly out here, and in a hurry."

Gina saddens as she sees the downcast look paint itself across her ex-husband's face. She has always loved Richard Castle. No, she hasn't always liked the man, and for good reason. But she knows that he has never mistreated her. She knows that their fate was sealed when she realized she couldn't penetrate the barrier he surrounded his daughter with. She idly wonders, today, if the detective has had more success than she on that front. She pushes those thoughts away.

" _That was another time, another life,"_ she muses to herself.

"All to say," she continues, now focusing exclusively on Kate. She can tell that Castle has retreated, and as stunning as that is to her, she needs to make sure that at least one of them gets the full message.

"All to say," she repeats, "Rick's little Hampton home here might not be the getaway option you hoped it would be," she says, as she stands to leave.

"Where are you going?" Castle asks suddenly, snapping out of his funk as soon as Gina stands to leave.

"Back home," she replies, a bit confused. "To the city. Where else would I –"

"You just got here," he interrupts. "And that – as you mentioned – is not the shortest drive in the world. And I remember how much you _love_ driving," he continues with a small, sarcastic smile.

" _Yeah, he's still in there,"_ Gina smiles to herself, more than a bit relieved.

"Castle's right, Gina," Kate agrees, stunning both women in the process. "You spent the last few hours getting out here. Stay awhile. Rest for a bit. We could use the company."

Kate has never seen Castle like this. It has crossed her mind that perhaps the woman sitting across from her _has_.

"Seriously?" Gina asks incredulously. "I mean –"

"Seriously, Gina," Castle tells her. "I have a feeling that today isn't over yet. God knows I hope I'm wrong, but I don't think I am."

"I don't either, Rick," Gina tells him, solemnly. "I don't either."


	3. Chapter 3

**Recluse: Chapter 3**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Wednesday Morning – June 4, 2014, 11:27 a.m. at market shops in the East Hamptons**_

Richard Castle and Kate Beckett walk along the outdoor shops, something they have enjoyed doing for the past year during their visits to his beach home. They walk, holding hands – it's such a simple thing, but one that Kate has grown to appreciate more and more. She also has grown to appreciate a man with a definite way about the kitchen in the mornings. Breakfast had never been much of a habit for her. Then again, until recently, she hasn't had a steady diet of Richard Castle breakfasts in her life – something she has decided need to become a fixture moving forward.

This morning's surprise of Star Wars-shaped waffles - a death star waffle to be precise - complete with imported Canadian waffle syrup, and knives and forks with miniature light-saber handles still has her smiling. For a few brief hours this morning, she has had some semblance of her personal castle back. There was a hint of that lost twinkle behind the eyes, that smirk she has come to love so much. She knows he is excited to see Alexis as well, who is already on her way out to the Hamptons and will meet them back at the house later.

Yes, the morning has been kind to them – until, that is, their jaunt along the shops here. Once a familiar and enchanted time for Kate, today has been decidedly different. She feels the looks thrown their way, she hears the whispers behind their backs. And she knows that Castle sees and hears the same, as he has – over the past hour - slowly but surely begun to withdraw back into that dark cave where he has found solace for the past week or so.

But that's not the worst part.

No, the worst is that Castle can see it in the eyes of so many who pass by them, recognizing him. A few people show their disgust on their faces, and truth be told, he can deal with disgust. A few uppity strangers looking down their noses at him is the last thing that concerns the successful novelist. He's gotten that look from them before – from the crowd that considers any writing other than those of a hundred years ago to be worthy of nothing more than comic book fodder.

No, the worst part is those few people who he actually knows, those who they have run into that are not nameless faces. Okay, so what that he has never really considered them 'friends', per se. They are more like occasional acquaintances when he is in the Hamptons. People who he has often had casual, friendly conversations. He's had drinks with them, attended dinners with them, worked fundraisers with them.

With these people – these casual, occasional acquaintances – with them, there is no disgust, no outward contempt toward him. No, it is much worse.

It's fear in their eyes that he sees.

They are afraid of him. They are afraid of who he knows, afraid of what that person or persons might do. Those looks – they are the ones that hurt the most. Those looks tell him that he is no longer welcome.

It breaks his heart.

And hers.

"Had enough?" he asks her in a small whisper, his voice almost cracking, wanting to escape as quickly as possible.

"More than enough," she agrees, the anger in her eyes now palpable against the peaceful backdrop of the small shops.

Their slow easy gait picks up, turning into a focused, brisk pace to the parking lot where Castle parked the car. Within ten minutes, they are flying down the road, top-down, each lost in their own thoughts. Castle's thoughts continue to spiral downward. He glances at his hands on the steering wheel, and sees the trail of imaginary blood they leave on the wheel. Kate's thoughts are of pure anger, an anger that – for now – is unfocused, unrelenting.

As they pull onto the road leading to his home – their home – he finally speaks.

"I . . . I don't know what to do . . . where to go," he tells her. She glances over at him, her eyes hidden by the large, dark sunglasses. A smile that doesn't quite reach his face still dances within his spirit. She is just so beautiful. And she is his.

Well, almost his. There is still the matter of the wedding that wasn't.

To her credit, she hasn't said anything about it. But sure, Kate Beckett is concerned that – since his return - he hasn't mentioned – not even once – their wedding. Their missed opportunity. She has wondered, multiple times these past days, if the fates are truly conspiring against them. No she didn't expect him to jump right back into things as if nothing has happened – because clearly something happened to him down there on the Tangier Islands. But for him to say nothing at all – almost a week later – about their wedding – about the singular event he has pointed them towards for . . . for who knows who long? She knows that he has gone deep, and needs help.

Gina had offered some insight before her departure last night. While Castle had been in the shower, she had reminded Kate of the one flaw that Gina felt destroyed her marriage with the author: his unwillingness to allow Gina inside the fence he had erected around himself and Alexis. Yes, they've had this conversation before. But not like this, not with this kind of transparency.

" _That fence is returning, Kate,"_ Gina had told her last night. _"I can see it. Believe me, I recognize it. It separated me from Alexis. It was an impregnable barrier around his daughter. And now I see it returning – but this time, it is around him. He's fencing himself off. From everyone."_

" _Even me,"_ Kate had said quietly, recognizing the truth in her words.

" _I was never – never – able to break through that fence, Kate,"_ Gina had said, the sadness clearly evident in her eyes. _"You can't allow him to solidify this new one. Once in place, trust me, I know from experience that it's all but impossible to get through."_

" _And he thinks I have walls,"_ Kate had sadly mused out loud.

" _Pardon?"_ Gina had replied.

" _Nothing, Gina,"_ Kate had replied in turn. _"I don't suppose you have any suggestions here. I have to tell you, I'm in new territory here – this is new ground for us – Castle pushing back and me fighting to get in."_

" _Just . . . don't give up,"_ Gina hold told her, and the regret was evident. It was a surprisingly transparent moment for both women. _"You will regret it. Years later, you will relive it. Keep pushing. Push past his sarcasm. Push past his anger. Push past his stubbornness. Don't give up."_

It is advice that Kate had begun implementing the moment Gina had left. She could see Castle withdrawing, and instead of allowing it, she forced her way in. Not with words. But slipping her hand inside his. Keep her head on his shoulders, on his chest. A kiss peppering his cheek. Even going so far as to make sure her hair straddled his face as she would lean over, reaching for her drink. And today, along the shops, her hand never left his, her fingers wiggling against his.

They drive along the road to the house, and they pass the Morgans, a couple in their fifties who have always been kind, always friendly. They had become oft-used baby-sitters for Alexis when Castle needed to go back into the city, or out of town for one of Gina's maddening book tours.

Their indifference to him as he waves hurts. And it fuels the anger that simmers in the seat next to him.

"I don't get it," he finally tells her as they pull into the driveway. "I didn't do anything to those people. I wasn't even here," he almost sobs in frustration, pleading his case to an unlistening universe who mind is already made up. "Why do they hold me responsible for –"

"Don't go there, Rick," she tells him, squeezing his hand. "You are looking for logic where it doesn't exist. You are looking for common sense where there is none. This is not your fault. None of it. But you're the writer, you know people. You know how they can be. The easiest way to get past your own problems – even if it is temporary – is to find a common enemy."

"I'm being punished," he tells her, and she scoffs immediately, and just as immediately regrets her response. She knows he is in a dark place, and her reactions right now are of utmost importance to him.

"You aren't being punished," she pleads with him. "Please, babe –"

"Where can we go?" he asks, ignoring her words. Yeah, he is spiraling again.

"Rick, we can't keep running," she replies softly. "We will run out of places to –"

"No, we won't," he tells her, a bit of the old spark temporarily returning. "I have . . . means," he continues. "Means that other people would not possess. I guess I have Gina to thank for that also."

"Yeah, you do," she agrees. " _We_ do," she adds, and he smiles wistfully as he opens the door to get out of the small car.

"I'm glad she thought of that, because I have to tell you, it didn't even enter my mind until she mentioned it last night," she continues.

"Me either," he confirms as they walk toward the front door.

Last night Gina had mentioned to Castle that – as his power of attorney, financial and otherwise – she had issued a request to the bank to transfer a large sum of his funds offshore, to an account she had set up for him a few years ago. They all had marveled at their fortune that Castle had not revoked her status as power of attorney.

One sliver of serendipity.

Gina, knows how things can – and probably will – spiral out of control once he is released by Black Pawn. Personal sponsorships dry up. Civil suits could follow from families, and though they would be totally baseless, they still would cost him money. Quite a bit of it, just defending himself. And then there is the matter of the city of New York, and its desire, its burning need to have a scapegoat. She doesn't care that Bob Weldon is close friends with Richard. Business is business, and she knows the good mayor will sacrifice his good friend in a nanosecond to protect his already stifled career. An inquisition, arrest, indictment – who knows what could be coming down the road – but she has already moved to protect her friend's assets.

That Gina is treating him more like a friend than a client now is not lost on either of them. Kate, for her part, makes a mental note that there has to be something powerfully good about her fiancée that would allow an ex-wife to be willing to move heaven and hell for him, when necessary.

"What 'means' are you talking about, anyway?" she asks him as they close the front door. "What are you thinking about?"

"I'm thinking about Alexis," he tells her, and she nods knowingly, only now realizing how all of this is going to impact the young woman. Sure, she is a young adult, and she has seen enough of the real world already – an overseas kidnapping by Russian mobsters and spies will do that to a girl. But watching your parent, your father get attacked ruthlessly, without provocation and without justification? Who knows how Alexis will respond?

"Before I bought this place," he begins, as he walks immediately to the kitchen, to the bar area and reaches for a bottle of Malibu. He grabs a few pieces of ice, and drops them into two small tumblers. He pours each of them a few ounces of the clear coconut rum, and replaces the bottle on the shelf. He turns and hands her a glass, and with a short, mock salute as a toast, he takes two long sips of the soothing, smooth liquid.

"I had considered buying something a little more . . . ostentatious, I guess is the word some might use," he continues.

"Do tell," she muses aloud. "Where were you thinking?"

"Not where," he tells her with his trademark smirk. "A what."

He sees her confused look, and actually gives her a long-awaited smile for the afternoon.

"An island, Kate," he tells her. "I had considered buying a small island here on the east coast."

He sees the incredulous look on her face, and gives her another half-smile.

"Trust me, they are far more affordable than you probably realize."

 _ **The same time, down at Langley, Virginia**_

Jackson Hunt sits by the window overlooking the heavily wooded scene that opens out before him. He glances down at the bottle of water that he flips between his fingertips, lost in thought.

Everything inside him tells him that the Brackens were behind the abduction of his son, but he can't prove it. Not yet. But everything adds up to one of two conclusions:

One – William Bracken orchestrated this entire hellish scheme from behind bars – which would mean that the good Senator is far more connected – and conniving – than even Hunt realized.

Two – the mastermind behind the abduction is actually the Senator's wife. Something tells him that this is the more likely scenario. He feels it in his gut, but he can't move against them yet. It is still too soon after dealing with the district attorney, but if they are behind this – hell, whoever is behind this – they will have received his message.

His message is simple.

 _I know what you did, and I know who was involved. I'm coming for you, and no one who was involved will be spared._

No, he can't move just yet. There is already enough heat – too much, in fact – on his son as it is. He sighs, realizing that he may have miscalculated the media response, the public reaction. He will bide his time. For now, biding his time is a smart move. If this is the work of the Brackens, and he has no doubts in his mind that it is . . . or was, rather . . . then that means _she_ is out there, on the periphery. He has no illusions of taking their assassin out. Avoiding her, circumventing her, is the more likely scenario. Defeating her?

He chuckles at the absurdness of the thought. He shakes the thoughts away. That is down the road.

For now, however, he also senses that his son needs space, his son needs time to recover. He's gone into hiding. Good – it is a smart move for a man with the means. He will give him his solitude for now. But soon, very soon, he's going to have to bring his son out of hiding.

There is a matter of vengeance to take care of, after all.

He sighs, and tosses the partly-filled bottle in the trash, and picks up the folder on the table. He opens it, and reviews the itinerary. He smiles. It's been a while since he has been in Paris. His thoughts return to his son, and his granddaughter, as he stands and grabs his overnight bag, turns the lights off in the room, and heads to the airport.


	4. Chapter 4

**Recluse: Chapter 4**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **On Month Later, Friday Evening – July 4, 2014, 8:44 p.m. at Castle's Island Home in Connecticut**_

"C'mon, Rick, it's already dark. Let's get these babies in the air."

Detective Kate Beckett has surprised herself with the adolescent joy she is experiencing with something as simple as a firework display. Their own personal firework display at that. He smiles, standing next to her, as he reaches into the box, taking the last remnants of pyrotechnics they will be launching into the sky in just a few minutes.

It's the first thing he has really looked forward to in over a month. Dr. Peraza has been a tremendous help to her old college friend. She admittedly still has a long way to go.

Castle and Kate have been here, willingly isolated on their own personal island, for just over three weeks now. Early in June, he had worked through his long-time attorney, Arthur Forrester, to buy the small, developed island in Long Island Sound, just offshore from Guilford, Connecticut. The island is less than six acres, with a newly renovated, four-bedroom cottage with a small marina. And as he had promised Kate, purchasing the small hideaway turned out to be far less expensive than she ever realized.

They had made this a cash transaction, for just over half a million dollars, conducted entirely by his attorney with the previous owners. The island had been purchased by the firm, in the name of Forrester, to keep Castle's identity out of it. Subsequently, Forrester had transferred all documents into Castle's name with an affiliated title company.

Accessible only by watercraft, the tiny, heavily wooded hideaway has given Richard Castle exactly what he was looking for – isolation. The house – roughly four thousand square feet – sits pretty much in the middle of said island. During low tide, he can actually walk to shore – but it gives him the privacy he seeks. He had often joked with Beckett over the years that he always dreamed of having his own fortress of solitude.

" _Yeah, Castle, but don't you think we are a good thousand or so miles south of where that is supposed to be,"_ she had joked with him when the first showed her the island online. However, after watching him continually withdraw into his private hell, Kate Beckett was more than happy, more than anxious to get him – them – away from prying eyes and harsh tongues.

Their departure occurred just in time – as the 'restless natives' as Gina Cowell had described them, had begun to resort to physical tactics. Two days after Gina's departure, Castle had awakened to rotten eggs hurled throughout his front porch area. Less than a week later, Castle and his almost-bride found themselves walking through the doors of their first home purchase together. That their first home purchase also necessitated the purchase of a boat – a thirty-five foot Sea-Ray craft – was a bonus for the writer and his muse.

The Sea-Ray also proved to be useful as a sleeping quarters during that first week. While the quiet beauty of the small, personal getaway had stunned Kate into silence during their initial days there, the lack of furniture – except for kitchen appliances could have proven to be problematic, had they not had the small craft on the water to sleep on. And as they have learned to do with everything else, the couple turned that scenario into yet another great memory.

From the home, sitting on empty floors, their voices echoing throughout the house, they had gone online to order furniture – which arrived just over a week later. The fact that the two of them picked out a home – okay, an island – moved into that home, picked out furniture – but have still yet to even discuss their delayed nuptials still sticks in the back of her mind, an ever-growing itch left unscratched.

" _In due time,"_ she continues to tell herself, knowing that he is getting better. Sam has helped with this also – at least regarding Kate's perspective.

Dr. Samantha Peraza is an old college friend of Castle's. Kate had previously ruled out Dr. Burke as an option – not wanting anyone from New York – who could potentially be followed – to come out here. Peraza came up when Kate had subsequently gotten the name of the psychiatrist from Alexis, of all people. Alexis had mentioned to her that there was a Sam Peraza that had visited her father on a few occasions years ago, before she moved to Northern California, taking her practice there. Alexis had fond memories of the doctor, remembering the woman because she would engage in a quick fencing bout with her father whenever she came – and at her last visit, had actually engaged in a duel with Alexis, who was at that time beginning to learn the art as well.

They have taken the chance that Castle's college years will be safe from searching eyes – and Dr. Peraza has been very decisive up to this point.

The first thing Dr. Peraza had done, upon her arrival just a couple of days after Castle and Kate arrived themselves, was have the beautiful forest of trees surrounding the home cleared out, opening a view of the water surrounding them.

Having been briefed on Castle's 'coastal adventure' of the past few weeks, Dr. Peraza had shown an immediate reaction to their new dwellings.

" _He is acting out his capture here, Kate,"_ Dr. Peraza had warned. _"Often, traumatized victims expose themselves – almost compulsively – to situations that are reminiscent of the original event that caused their trauma in the first place. When this happens, it is rare that the victim – in this case – Richard – even understand how this could be similar to – or related to – his previous island incarceration. But he has replicated the scene amazingly – he's on an island, he's surrounded by wooded trees, there is no furniture in here, Kate – not one piece!"_

" _My God, I didn't even realize,"_ Kate had replied, while an equally stunned Castle had concurred with a nod of his head.

" _The only thing missing is the fence and the lions,"_ Samantha Peraza had continued. _"We just have to make sure that this new home for the two of you becomes his reality – not a recreation of what he has just come through. It's called repetition compulsion, and seventy years after its discovery, we still know so little about it – even though it is a regular topic discussion in current clinical literature._

" _Do we know why it happens? Why I would do this – want to go back to such . . . to such a miserable experience?"_ an exasperated Castle had asked.

" _No, we don't,"_ Dr. Peraza had replied. _"Freud originally postulated that the victims' goal for repetition was to master the situation that had overtaken them. Clinical experience, however, has shown that this rarely, rarely happens. Instead, the repetition usually causes further suffering for the victims . . . or worse, for people in their surroundings."_

That had been enough for Castle. Two days later, the bulldozers showed up, clearing out most of the trees. They still left a good number standing, but only in spots here and there, so that there was an open view from all angles, from all positions, to the waters and the distant shoreline. And in the past weeks now, Kate has seen progress – wonderful progress – in her lover. But he is still so far out of the woods.

The good doctor visits once a week each Saturday and Saturday. Kate – through Castle's bank account – has arranged payments in advance for charter airline tickets. It's not cheap, as a commercial flight would get the doctor to the east coast by maybe four o'clock. From there, she's still have to either charter a flight, catch a train and a cab – something or another to get her to Guilford. Turns out that paying for the charter is the most direct and expedient approach – especially since they have the money.

As Castle is want to do, he turns each late Saturday afternoon pickup back on shore into a pirate adventure, as Castle and his first mate, the lovely Beckett, swoop into the small harbor town to rescue a damsel in distress.

His daydreams – which have been waking nightmares themselves – have gotten better. She still catches him drifting away, but it is less frequent now, and he is more easily pulled back. The nighttime nightmares, however, persist, assaulting his slumber each and every night. He wakes up in a sweat, eyes wide, often staring at his hands. It breaks her heart seeing him like this, and it also frightens her. She remembers this – she knows this first-hand. She is just a couple of years removed from the night terrors herself, from her shooting those years ago.

Dr. Peraza has warned them, continuously, that his progress toward true good health will be measured in months – and possibly years – but certainly not in weeks.

" _This isn't a quick fix,"_ she has told them. _"I'm sorry, I wish it were. But there is no easy solution."_

She has told them, however, that getting him into a routine that is familiar to his life before the traumatic events of Tangier Island is the short-term goal. Part of that is impossible, of course, because she is still on forced leave. So there are no cases to crack. She is also considering leaving the force on a more permanent basis, considering new options for law enforcement – but she has yet to share these with Castle just yet – at the good doctor's request.

" _He's not ready for that much change just yet, Kate,"_ Samantha has warned her. _"But there are other things Richard does, you know."_

Yeah, other things. No cases, no Esposito, no Ryan. Alexis comes to visit when she can, and his mother, Martha is . . . well, Martha is Martha.

So that leaves his writing – and despite her hopes, he has no words.

Nothing comes when he sits at the laptop. His mind remains a blank, the only interruptions are the terror they are trying to put behind him. Putting him upstairs doesn't matter. Putting him outside doesn't matter. They've tried him sitting on the boat. Today, they even tried taking the boat out to the open waters. It had sounded like a good idea, change the scenery, let the ocean winds blow against his face. Perhaps inspiration would come. And truth be told, Kate did enjoy being Captain Beckett for a day, at the helm of the small, mobile craft. That is, until she had noticed that he had stripped down to his underwear, and put the laptop away. For half an hour, he simply laid on the deck. To a casual observer, he appeared to be innocently sunning himself. It is in the nineties, a hot day, and they were out on the ocean after all.

But then it hit her – and Dr. Peraza's words had sledgehammered her.

'Repetition compulsion' the doctor had called it. An unconscious urge to recreate the traumatic event. Suddenly, Kate didn't see Castle sunning himself on a luxury speed craft on a lazy summer day. No, he was back escaping the island – stripped naked (almost) – in a small dinghy, a gunshot wound in his shoulder, the hot sun beating down on him, blistering his skin.

She had rushed to cover him, and bring him to the bridge with her as she had turned the boat back towards the shore, back to their island. Both had been fairly quiet, as he also recognized – after the fact – what he had done.

So – that has been their day today. She's anxious to get Samantha's feedback on their nautical excursion today, and Castle's perceived setback. But that's for tomorrow. Tonight? A calm night of launching and watching fireworks – something new and decidedly 'them', seems to be a good idea.

He reaches down, the long portable lighter inflamed, and sets off the first set – simple roman candles to get the party started. For the next fifteen or twenty minutes, they are young kids again – laughing, clapping gleefully, launching and quickly stepping back for distance as they watch the colorful aerial display above their heads.

Kate smiles, realizing that the loud explosions are having no ill effect on the man she loves.

" _Baby steps,"_ she thinks to herself, enjoying the show – enjoying him. When it is over, they stand, holding hands, still gazing upward.

"I can think of a better view of the sky," she tells him, and can only shake her head at his confused look. There was a time – oh not so long ago – when those simple words uttered along with a batting eyelash would have sent him over the edge. Tonight?

Well, tonight, she may have to keep him a little push, a little nudge, that's all.

She walks over to the blanket they had thrown down an hour earlier, and slowly unbuttons her blouse, letting the item fall to the grass below. Seconds later her bra follows. By then, his brain has finally rebooted and recognized the opportunity – a minute later they lay on the ground, naked, locked in motion.

The night stars have never looked so beautiful to her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Recluse: Chapter 5**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **On Month Later, Friday afternoon – August 1, 2014, 5:03 p.m. at Castle's Island Home in Connecticut**_

"Noooooo!" he screams, bolting upward in the bed. Sweat swims down his forehead and he recognizes immediately the pool of warmth around his neck and upper chest.

Kate Beckett had awakened maybe five minutes earlier, hearing her partners soft moaning in the bed next to her. She realized he was having a nightmare – truly a nightly thing now for Richard Castle – and had been doing what she has been doing for over two months now; rubbing his chest, whispering soft and encouraging words to him as he sleeps.

In his sleep, he is fighting. He's back on the island, of course, and the fence is still up, the lions are still there – hungry – and he sits, crouching in the tree, hidden from view. The chopper has landed and – just like every night – the man walks toward the tree, where the now-disabled video camera sits hidden on one of the upper branches.

In his sleep, just like every night so far, he gazes down at the makeshift weapon of aluminum can tops in his hands. And as it is every night, his hands are already bloody. The red thickness almost has an odor, and he watches the liquid ooze down the branches, down the trunk. He prays the approaching man doesn't notice, doesn't see.

The man reaches the bottom of the trunk, and – just as he did on the island – Castle launches himself downward. However, tonight – just as every night for the past month now – the man glances upward, just in time and sees Castle right as he makes his jump. He easily sidesteps the surprised writer, who now falls harmlessly to the ground.

Harmlessly to the intruder, that is. Something snaps in Castle's leg, causing him to scream in pain.

That's when he bolts upright in the bed, reaching for his leg – which of course, is fine.

"It's okay, babe," Kate tells him, rubbing his shoulder while Castle stares – confused – at his perfectly fine and pain-free leg.

"I . . . I don't understand," he half whimpers, blinking his eyes rapidly before focusing on the beautiful woman who is now sitting up in bed next to him. He doesn't hear her soft words, he doesn't feel her smooth caresses. He's still on the island, getting pummeled to death by a now angry visitor to the isolated camp. He weakly raises his arms in protest. Kate has learned – after conversations with Dr. Peraza, to allow him to fight through it, to awaken on his own. It usually takes a little bit of time – usually around twenty, thirty, sometimes forty seconds. Tonight, it is closer to the former, thankfully.

He snaps awake, glancing at his partner, the embarrassment clearly sculpted on his face.

"I'm sorry, Kate," he mumbles, wiping the perspiration from his brow.

"No, babe," she tells him. "There's no reason to apologize. Same dream?" she asks, although she already knows the answer. His body reactions are identical each night.

Each night, he has the same recurring dream. He's back on the island, he has disabled the video camera and now lies in wait for his captors to arrive. When they do, however, they easily get the upper hand on him. Instead of a victorious, albeit bloody escape, he is pummeled, mercilessly, within an inch of his life. He deserves it, he tells himself, with every blow that connects. His nose breaks, his jaw is fractured, and the pain in his leg is a lightning bolt that shakes his core. And he deserves every bit of the pain, every punch, every laceration.

He deserves it all for what he has done to them.

Samantha, God bless his old friend, is trying to help. She is trying to get him to realize that – his wild imagination as a mystery writer aside – sometimes things in life truly are black and white. There is good in the world, and there is evil in the world. Often they collide. And when they do, sometimes there is a gray area that takes its place as the battlefield between these two historic combatants. For eons, they have warred with one another.

Often, however, she tells him, that gray area is unattainable. It resists the pull. What is left is the black and white finality. When this occurs, death usually follows.

" _It's the binary way of the universe, Rick,"_ she has told him, opting for a bit of pop psychology hoping to spur her friend back of the ledge. _"Sometimes these two opposing forces collide, and – as simplistic as it sounds, and I know you don't want to hear this – but sometimes there simply is no other way, no other option. Sometimes, it truly does come down to the inescapable logic of 'it's either him or me'. That's where you were, Rick. That's not your fault."_

His response, for the past month, has always been the same.

" _There's always another way, Sam,"_ he tells her time and again _. "I just didn't look for it, I didn't search for it. Hell, I didn't want to find it. I just . . . I just wanted out."_

" _And that's not a normal reaction?"_ she has asked him, prodding him on. _"You don't think it's normal to want freedom? You don't think it's normal to want to escape horrific incarceration?"_

" _There's always another –"_

" _Not when you are isolated and alone,"_ she counters. _"Not when you are watching live human beings fed to animals to be eaten alive," she continues, ignoring the wincing motion on his face. "Not when you have no idea who has taken you, or why you've been taken."_

None of this resounds with Richard Castle. There is clarity in his thinking – at least in his own mind. And it tells him there _always_ is another way. It's not just some cliché he clings to. It's not some Pollyannaish ideal that he reaches for. No – the foundation for his thinking is the beautiful woman who sits in the bed next to him.

He's followed, stalked, shadowed – they laugh at the possible terms these days – Kate Beckett for going on what – roughly seven years now. And here is what he knows. Here is what she has taught him.

There's always another way.

Finding 'another way' is what Kate Beckett has been exceptionally good at. He knows that – with a few exceptions that usually are tied to her mother's case – Kate has managed to find the 'another way' door. She has managed to subdue without killing. She has been able to emerge victorious without butchering.

Sure, she killed Dick Coonan only when the man, gun in hand, gave her no other option. None.

But Scott Dunn? A serial mass murderer who had blown up her apartment and held a friend at gunpoint? Nope – she found another way.

Hell, go back to their earliest cases. A knife-wielding crazy woman in a laundromat, losing it, at the point of no return? Nope – she talked her down. Literally.

And the ultimate. The dragon.

Bracken? She had him in her sights, dead to rights, and chose to leave him with a reminding scar, in lieu of the bullet he deserved.

There is always another way – that's what years and years of chasing this woman has taught him. In so many ways. Yet when the fates conspired to put him to the ultimate test – he has failed miserably. And so those same fates continue their nocturnal assaults on him. Reminding him of his failure. Reminding him of his crime. Reminding him that somewhere out there, a wife is now alone. A child is fatherless. And no one – not Samantha, not Kate, not Alexis – no one has penetrated the invulnerable armor of guilt that he has erected.

He feels her lips on his cheek. It snaps him back.

Her, too. He doesn't deserve her either.

He leans into the kiss he know belongs elsewhere – with someone more deserving. And true to her nature – their nature – she seems to sense where his illogical internal rant has taken him.

"I'm where I belong, babe," she tells him softly. "As are you. You belong with me."

He opens his mouth to defend his downward spiral, but she places a finger on his lips, silencing them. Samantha has told her many things, given her many things to consider. But the one thing that the good doctor has shared with Kate that has found roots, more than any other, was simply telling her the dangers of the tongue.

" _The problem, Kate, is that our minds – our brains – work in a funny way,"_ Samantha had told her just last week, crystalizing things for the detective.

" _Your brain sees, hears, feels – and therefore, processes so much data every day – every minute. Some things our brains discard. Other things our brain holds on to as truths, as fundamental truths that become foundational. And here is the problem – more than anything else, your brain believes what it hears come out of your own mouth. The things we see and experience – none of them find a home as truths in our brains more than the words we actually say with our mouths. Your mind believes what it hears you say more than any other source. And right now, everything Richard is saying is damning to himself. Everything Richard is saying is derogatory to himself. Everything Richard is saying brings guilt and condemnation to himself. And his brain believes what he says more than any other source of input. More than mine. More than yours. More than his mother, his daughter._

 _So, the best thing you can do for him, sometimes, is not to just let him talk things out. Sometimes, just hold him, let him know you are there, let him remember how loved he is – but don't let him continue his self-flogging nature. His brain needs to hear better words from his lips."_

Kate smiles, as she recalls the conversation that – months from now – she will attest turned the tide, turned the ship around. But tonight? The HMS Castle continues to bounce along rough waters, with gale winds threatening to capsize the formerly steady ship.

"Lay back down with me," she urges, places another kiss on his cheek, followed by an exploration of the side of his lip."

"But I –"

"Don't talk, babe," she coos to him, peppering him with short kisses again. "I love you – you are a magnificent human being. I could not be more proud, love any man more."

"But –"

"Shhh," she whispers with her smile intact. "Look at me," she orders him, her voice just a bit more firm. When he doesn't comply, she softly – but firmly – grabs his cheek, and turns his face toward hers. His eyes find hers, and see nothing but love, and pride, and support.

"Look at me," she orders him again, and he rests his head on the pillow, now facing her – and they lie there, side by side – his eyes falling deeper into hers, listening to words he doesn't believe but lost in eyes he knows would never lie to him. Her words – yeah, they have lied in the past. But those eyes – no, they have always been true. Even when the words weren't true, the eyes would look away so as not to give things away. But this night, the eyes and words align.

"I love you," she tells him again, her voice just above a whisper. "You're a good man. I could never love someone who was not a good man."

"I just," he begins, but her finger cuts him off again. She doesn't know what he was going to say. It could have been anything from a declaration of guilt to a declaration of love. But she can't take that chance. So she keeps him quiet. Staring into her eyes. Listening to her voice. Giving her voice to him until better words find their way to the surface from his own lips.

"I love you, Castle," she tells him, keeping his eyes focused on her. "I love you, babe."


	6. Chapter 6

**Recluse: Chapter 6**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Saturday early evening – August 30, 2014, 5:33 p.m., Castle's Island Home in Connecticut**_

Kate Beckett sits on the marina dock, her feet dangling in the water as she watches the thirty-seven foot, sleek HMS Stormy Heat – yes, he actually went there – pull away from the dock, heading to the shoreline less than a mile away. Richard Castle and Dr. Samantha Peraza are headed into town to do a little shopping, mixing therapy with fixing the grocery shortage at their home, some two hundred feet behind where Kate sits.

Last night's nightmares – a constant, non-stop nightly occurrence – were both typical and untypical. It's the same unrelenting dream – but this time he didn't awaken. There were a few moans throughout the night, rustling the detective awake. But he never awakened. She doesn't know if that is a good thing or not. She doesn't know if that is progress or not. But for once, he didn't awaken this morning in a cold sweat, tired from restless sleep.

The late summer breeze kisses her face, blowing auburn locks here and there – and she closes her eyes, taking in the sensory experience, pulling in the smells. Not for the first time, she idly wonders exactly how long she and Castle are going to stay here . . . . and how difficult it will be to leave.

She opens her eyes, smiling softly against the wind, wondering – again – why she would ever return to the NYPD force. Sure, for the first month, she was anxious to return, but not nearly as much as she had anticipated. Perhaps it was the busywork of keeping her partner sane, but she hasn't missed the hectic bustle of New York City, or the 12th Precinct as much has she had initially figured she would. And with every day, every week that passes . . . well, the peaceful life without being shot at, physically assaulted or undermined is starting to look – and feel – better and better.

Captain Gates seemed to sense the not-so-subtle shift in her best detective. Their conversation last week, shorter than usual, left the Captain in a state of worry, to say the least. For the first time, Kate not only did not sound all that anxious to jump back into the fray, but actually seemed quite content to stay on the sidelines indefinitely.

" _Things have settled down here quite considerably, Detective,"_ Gates had told her, emphasizing the title that she very much wants Kate to hold on to. _"Once those reports finally filtered up here in the city of escaped lions prowling the underbrush down in the Tangier Islands, and the police report of the scorched earth remains of what appeared to be a compound of some type, well, the press finally began to relent in their crusade against Mr. Castle."_

" _That, or they finally found something more worthwhile – and accurate – to start reporting,"_ Kate had countered. _"How they could even think to blame a man who was held captive –"_

" _I know, Detective. I know,"_ Gates had agreed. _"Nevertheless, I think within the next couple of weeks, it might make sense for the NYPD's finest detective to return to the ranks – don't you?"_

" _Perhaps, Captain,"_ Kate had told her, immediately raising the hackles of concern on the 12th Precinct's leader. _"Let me think on that for a bit, would you mind?"_

" _Detective Beckett . . . Kate,"_ Gates said gently. _"Are you considering taking a little more time off, or are you considering take a lot of time off . . ."_

" _I'm not quite sure, Captain, to be honest,"_ she had told her captain, hammering another nail of worry into the ex-Internal Affairs woman. _"Maybe there is something different out there for me . . . out here for me. It's so peaceful here . . . and I could use a little peaceful in my life."_

" _I agree, Kate,"_ Gates had hold her. _"But you really couldn't just give this all up . . . could you?"_

" _I don't know, sir,"_ Kate replies honestly. _"Some days I can't imagine doing anything else . . . and some days . . . I don't know, some days I can't imagine not doing something else."_

Yeah, that conversation had left a ton of concerns for one Victoria Gates. But right now, Kate's focus is so far away from police work – and she's in no hurry to change that.

The creaking boards of the small dock alert her to the approaching presence. She turns and smiles, as the taller man slowly lowers his thin frame to sit next to her.

"A man could get used to this," he tells her, smiling broadly.

"I know, Dad," she replies. "A girl is already getting used to this."

Ever astute, the older gentleman's smile slowly turns into a bit of a smirk. He knows his daughter – better than anyone.

"Exactly what _'this'_ are we talking about here?" he asks her. "This _island_ , or this _lifestyle_ away from the huddled masses."

"Is there a difference?" she queries back, smiling herself.

"You're not running again are you, Katie?" he asks. He doesn't mean any malice by the question. And given her history, it's a good question. He quickly holds one hand up to deflect any defensive response she might have.

"I know that this is good for Rick, being out here all alone, isolated, given what he has gone through," Jim continues. "But I'm kind of surprised not to see you scratching the post, itching to get back into the game."

"Maybe I'm tired of the game, Dad," she replies, glancing sideways at him, her smile still intact.

"I mean – think about it," she continues. "No one out there in the world knows where we are," she says, gesturing out toward land, and the still-shrinking craft in the distance. "And no one here knows _who_ we are. I used to always think, Dad, that the only way Castle and I would ever have a fighting chance is if we could just start over. From scratch. But that's impossible."

"Only, impossible has just happened, hasn't it?" he asks softly, smiling knowingly at his daughter.

"It's unbelievable, but yes," she replies. "Everything for us has more or less stopped, come to a halt – and allowed us to kick-start it at our own pace. No prying eyes. No pushing friends. No one to impress. No one to shelter. Outside of his nightmares, this has been . . ."

She can't complete the sentence, because she knows his nightmares are the single stumbling block for them at this time. She is so thankful for Samantha, who is helping Rick take gigantic baby steps, if that makes sense.

"I almost didn't recognize him," Jim Beckett tells her, slightly changing the subject. "I mean, I guess I really didn't recognize him. It's only because I know who he is . . ."

"Yeah, the disguises work great," she chuckles.

Kate and Castle have created new identities for themselves. Castle has chosen a shoulder length black wig, and John Lennon-type spectacled glasses, usually worn with a fishing hat to complete the islander disguise. Kate has opted for – at Castle's suggestion – a short blonde wig with simulated black roots growing out. Both use the disguises any time they go ashore, and Kate usually wears large black sunglasses and dark lipstick to top off her look.

When ashore, they are known as Jackson and Johanna Storm, an ironic play on words for many reasons. It also gives the public a reasonable explanation for the boat's name – although the couple knows the real backstory.

"Still, Katie," her father continues. "I am beginning to wonder if you and Castle ever plan to leave this humble dwelling," he says with a chuckled flourish, extending an arm back toward the house behind them. "And I have to be honest – I'm wondering, which of you is the one holding on to the getaway life here?"

Kate laughs – actually laughs out loud, her hand gently slapping her father's knee.

"You do know me pretty well," she continues laughing. "Castle and I had the same conversation last night."

"How so?" he asks.

"He was apologizing for bringing me out here, for taking me so far away from my old life – he knows how important detective work is . . . was . . . is to me," she tells him, searching for the most accurate words. Her struggle with the more accurate tense is not lost on her father.

"He was promising me that he is getting better – although he really has a way to go, Dad. The nightmares . . . they are just unrelenting."

"Give him time, Katie," her dad cautions. "You've been where he is now. You needed time, too, if you recall –"

"Oh no, believe me, I am not rushing things at all, Dad," she interrupts. "In fact, that is what was so funny about our conversation last night. Rick was trying to tell me that he is getting better – he was asking me to be patient. He wanted me to know that we would be able to return soon. He is wondering if . . . he is afraid that I will get tired of this and run."

"Hmmm, do tell," Jim mumbles to himself, drawing an angry elbow from his daughter.

"And I was the one telling him that there is no hurry, that we can take all the time in the world," she continues, ignoring his cautionary gesture. "I mean, he bought an island, Dad. An island! Why in the world would we want to rush away from this?" she continues, her arms spread in an expressive gesture.

"We're alone, we're happy together, no one knows us here. No one bugs us. Alexis comes, you come – Samantha comes. Heck, we barely even see Martha. Here, Rick and I are allowed to live the life that alluded us back in the city. Here, Jackson and Johanna are already known as this nice, kind of reclusive, throwback couple who mind their own business and don't like publicity, don't like to be bothered. And so while everyone is friendly, and we are friendly in return, no one asks us how we came into our money, where we came from, what we do – nothing. The disguises Rick came up with are just brilliant."

"A true writer's mind," Jim Beckett whistles in admiration.

"What do you mean?" his daughter asks.

"Think about it," Jim explains. "He's a story-teller. A master story-teller –"

"Careful," she warns with a chuckle. "His ego may still be able to hear you from the shore."

"Perhaps," he grins in agreement. "But he has created a disguise for both of you that does exactly what he does for a living – it tells a story. Your disguises tell people that you are reluctant affluents, for lack of a better term. You probably worked hard for your money, but you don't want to flaunt it, you have never lived the ostentatious life. You're not into fancy hotels, fancy restaurants. Okay, Rick's car aside," he jokes, and she joins him.

"Yes, you have a boat, but it's not a yacht. It doesn't scream money. You've always been loners, and now money hasn't changed that. You've bought yourselves an island to stay hidden from the public, to stay to yourselves. You come into town to shop for food, to occasionally eat a meal. You're friendly, but borderline stand-offish, not out of arrogance – but out of shyness. Hence, no one questions you – or your past history. Quite a brilliant disguise indeed – one that tells the exact story that Rick likely wanted."

She nods in agreement, once again marveling at the story-telling abilities of her writer/lover/partner, who – it is now obvious – doesn't even need a writing canvas to tell a tale.

"So – the question remains," he asks his daughter, a knowing twinkle in his eye.

"Which of you is the hermit-in-training? When I first came here, I thought I knew the answer to that. Now? Now, I'm not so sure."

She places her head on his shoulders, a silent smile on her face, her eyes now fixated in the distance at the shoreline where her partner is currently disembarking from their craft, now heading into town with his 'sister' from California.


	7. Chapter 7

**Recluse: Chapter 7**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Friday afternoon – September 5, 2014, 5:03 p.m., Castle's Island Home in Connecticut**_

"Dad, let's go," an excited Alexis Castle calls out, wading through the water to the long, sleek thirty-five foot craft that bobs up and down, some fifteen feet from the dock. The tide is out a bit today – probably why her dad opted to build another boat dock on the open-ocean side of the island.

She carries with her the fairly large basket of food, with her father in tow behind her, carrying a small, portable ice chest filled with ice and drinks. Kate Beckett is a few steps behind him with additional foodstuffs.

It is Alexis' first visit in almost three weeks, and Kate has decided that a night on the water – just the three of them – will do all some good. She plans on going perhaps a mile or two further out into the Sound before dropping anchor – still well in sight of land, but far enough to feel out on the water. Samantha will be arriving tomorrow, and that will mean another late afternoon and evening without Castle. She wants to make the most of this time, this evening.

Alexis is unable to keep the smirk from her face as she approaches the craft, her eyes on the boat's name inscribed in large black letters. A few more steps and she places the basket on the back ledge, and grabs the ladder, climbing aboard. She turns and takes the ice cooler from her father, grunting with its weight. She then takes the additional food bag from Kate, along with a duffel bag of board games they plan on playing late into the evening.

There are smiles aplenty between the three as Alexis fires up the engine – a broad smile painting her still slightly-freckled face, and the long red strands of hair begin to rise in the wind as they pick up speed, pulling away from Cutthroat Island, as her father has named their home. Not the most original name, but he has certainly gotten into character with his own private, pirate playground. Unbeknownst to Alexis or Kate, he has even gone as far to bury treasure on the island – having acquired a beautiful white gold necklace, with a two carat diamond with a matching pink tourmaline stone wrapped inside a heart. It's a gift he plans on giving to his detective very soon. That had been a good day, just a week ago, when he had awakened before Kate and managed to sneak out and bury the piece inside a small, mock treasure chest. He had built up a sweat, rushing to the spot and digging a shallow hole – no more than three feet deep – and placing the item there.

Of course, retracing his steps, counting each one while trying to take shorter, Beckett-like steps had been more difficult than he imagined. Still, he had pulled it off, and has created a map of the island and the gift's current resting place on his laptop.

Moreover, the playful jaunt had – at least temporarily – unleashed the writer's previously paralyzed imagination, and now an outline for a new series of novels has been created.

Of course, who will publish these new works, once he completes the first one, is a huge question mark now. True to her prediction, Black Pawn had dumped their prize star almost three months ago. No matter, it had been an expected move. Gina's warning had been disappointing, of course, but it also had served to remove the harsh sting once it actually occurred.

Now on the boat, Castle and Kate sit back, relaxing, holding hands, both watching the spray of red hair in front of them navigating the long craft. She is humming, singing something neither of them can make out.

Kate feels his fingers along hers, and she fights to restrain herself as she notices his fingers playing with the engagement ring still on her finger. She risks a glance his way, and sees he is deep in thought, his eyes firmly on the jewelry piece.

"We have to do something about this," he tells her, his voice just above the small roar of the engine. "It looks lonely there, without its mate."

Alexis offers a quick glance over her shoulder, having heard her father's words. She smiles to herself, nodding her head.

She had asked him, just a few hours ago, late this morning upon her arrival, about that very topic, and had . . . well, admonished is probably the correct term. She had admonished him for avoiding the subject with Kate.

" _I haven't been avoiding the subject, Alexis," he had attempted – feebly – to argue. "I just haven't –"_

" _You haven't been yourself, I know, Dad,"_ she completes for him. _"And all of us understand that. But you have a woman out there who has dropped everything, and everyone – just to be with you, to take care of you. This is the same woman who you have complained – rightly so – that sprints away faster than an Olympian at the slightest obstacle. Yet here she is, deep undercover with you out here. You owe it to her to at least talk about it."_

" _I know, pumpkin,"_ he had countered. _"It's just –"_

" _It's just, nothing, Dad,"_ Alexis had countered herself, knowing that she is pushing it a bit. But she thinks her dad kind of needs a push right now.

" _She deserves to know what you are thinking, one way or the other,"_ his daughter had told him. _"If it were me, and some man were avoiding the topic with me . . . what would you be telling me to do?"_

She had been right, of course. Regardless of where his head is – and has been – she deserves to know what is going on. And of course, he still wants to marry this woman – probably more than anything in the world. Especially after the past month or so – as things have been pleasantly different, better, even despite his current challenges. And that – for him – is the issue.

He just feels unworthy of her. He's a murderer. A monster. His very humanity has been tested by the universe and he failed miserably.

He doesn't even know how to broach the subject with her. But Alexis is right – tonight needs to be the night they at least start talking about it again. He continues fingering the ring, eyes fixated on the shining diamond, his mind traveling back to when he placed it on her finger.

"It is still beautiful," he hears Kate tell him, and he feels pangs of guilt for letting it go this far.

"It's beautiful but lonely," he repeats. "It needs a companion."

" _I_ need a companion," she tells him, in a moment of rare vulnerability from his detective. "I was beginning to wonder if you still wanted this."

"I have wanted this for years, Kate," he tells her, now turning to face her. "Don't ever question that – even when everything I may be doing screams otherwise, never question how much I love and need you."

To her credit, Alexis is trying to tune the private moment out, now humming even louder to drown out the poignant conversation behind her. She is partially successful.

"I'm glad to hear that," Kate tells him. "So . . ."

She lets the question hang in the warm breeze, her body now used to the rhythmic bumping of the craft on the ocean.

"So, how does later this month sound to you?" he asks, a fantastic idea now bouncing around his head. Okay, fantastic from his point of view. It remains to be seen what she will think about it, but given a few things he has already done . . .

" _Yeah, this will be so cool, so epic,"_ he thinks to himself. She doesn't know his thoughts, of course, but her heart erupts as she sees the flicker of excitement dancing in his eyes. She has seen remnants of this, of course, in the past couple of weeks, but here as dusk approaches – now over three months after his ordeal - she finally sees the full-beam power of her fiancée re-surface. It's about damn time, too.

"Seriously?" she asks, excitement growing. "This month? But what about –"

"Will this month work or not, m'lady?" he asks, his trademark smirk finding its place, bringing a broader smile to her face.

"Sure, Castle, why not?" she tells him, smiling in agreement. "But –"

"No buts," he interrupts. "Leave the details to me. It's not like I have anything to do anyway. It will be fun and it will be good for me."

"Hey Castle," she inserts, "it's not like my plate is full either. I could –"

"You could just make yourself stunningly beautiful and extraordinary, just like you always do," he smiles. "I will take care of the rest."

He turns his attention to their 'captain', cupping his hands around his mouth for effect.

"Ahoy Captain, I'd say we're about where we need to be," he says with a broad, infectious smile. "Drop anchor anywhere you like."

"Aye aye, skipper," Alexis chimes back, half turning and giving a mock salute. She turns back to the open water with a smile, and lets the smooth craft glide another hundred or so yards before throttling the engine down. She takes a deep breath of sea air, eyes closed, and her smile still bright. Opening her eyes, she looks eastward, towards the open ocean and glances upward at the stars now sprinkled across the sky, downward to the horizon.

She steps back off the bridge and glances at the couple, who – still cuddled together – are watching her with broad smiles of their own.

"What?" she asks, almost defensively but more playfully. "Is something on me?" she jokes, glancing down at her backside, and then the back of her legs.

"No," he smiles – and there is just a tad hint of sadness there – as he gazes at his young daughter. "Just watching my pumpkin grow up right before my eyes," he says, and feels a supportive squeeze in his hand from Kate.

"Okay, who's hungry?" Kate asks loudly, warding off the potential downpour of tears between father and daughter.

"Me!" shouts Alexis, drawing yet another smile from her dad.

"Good," Kate replies, standing and reaching down for the basket filled with food. Alexis reaches down and flips a switch, turning soft music on, and seconds later, the cabin lights come on. They will stay out here a few hours before returning to within a hundred yards of the island docks before dropping anchor for the evening.


	8. Chapter 8

**Recluse: Chapter 8**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Saturday afternoon – September 27, 2014, 4:03 p.m., Castle's Island Home in Connecticut**_

"Dude, I feel ridiculous in this outfit," Javier Esposito exclaims in frustration brushing the single, solitary insect from his head. The persistent fly has spent the last minute buzzing around Esposito's face, turning him into an old Warner Brother's caricature.

"Just be glad he didn't pick September 19th, Javi," Kevin Ryan chuckles. "Otherwise he'd have the whole lot of us talking like pirates for the entire ceremony."

"The whole lot of us?" Esposito argues. "You're already talking like a damn pirate, Kevin!"

"Watch the language, bro. There's a priest up there," Ryan tells him, pointing toward the island's shore where Richard Castle and Dr. Samantha Peraza stand, next to the man in black.

Well, partially in black. He has a black shirt, with the priest's white collar and . . . black shorts leading down to his bare feet.

"How'd Castle talk him into wearing that?" Ryan wonders aloud.

"Hell, how'd he talk _us_ into wearing _this!_ " Esposito counters, pointing at their own attire.

They each are in pirate garb, with Esposito's 'uniform' – all provided by Castle, of course – the more brightly-garbed. His pants are a bright maroon color, with a white button down shirt, with a ruffled neckline and ballon arms. Kevin wears a similar shirt, but at least he was granted black pants. Both pants are stuffed inside black boots. Esposito sports a maroon bandana, while Kevin Ryan wears an orange scarf tied around his forehead.

Jenny is dressed as a deck-hand, with short balloon pants rolled up to her knees, barefoot and a semblance of a t-shirt.

Lanie – for now, has refused to come out of the house.

"Mmm, what a fine couple of men be here," a sultry voice drawls, placing a soft, milky white hand on Esposito's shoulder.

"You got the fine right, beautiful," Esposito smiles as he turns to face the owner of such a compliment. "But the number is wro-"

Whatever finishing thought he has is cut off by the lack of oxygen entering his system, as Javier Esposito momentarily forgets to breath.

"Hey Alexis," Jenny chuckles, unable to take her eyes off of a very wide-eyed Javier Esposito, who is looking for the nearest rock to climb under. Tough task in the middle of a sandy beach.

"Hi Jenny," Alexis smiles, then turns her gaze toward an increasingly embarrassed Esposito. "So, you think I'm beautiful, Detective Esposito?"

"Oh God," Esposito states in alarm, backing up and almost tripping over the feet of his 12th Precinct partner. Her white blouse is low-cut, all but daring the detective to drop his eyes for a peak. A black corset bustier atop the blouse leads down into a flowing skirt falls calf length, with fine brown boots completing the wardrobe.

Fortunately, Alexis continues past the threesome, headed straight out toward the waterline where her father stands.

"Hey Dad," she calls out as she is still about ten feet away from the writer.

"Hey, pumpkin, you look absolutely stunning," a proud Richard Castle tells his daughter as he opens his arms. She easily falls into his chest, providing him with yet another lifetime moment.

"Detective Esposito thought so, too," Alexis states innocently, and can barely contain herself as she watches her father's face flush from peaceful love to murderous intent in a flash. Back about fifty feet away Detective Esposito watches Castle's gaze fall on him – and for a brief instant forgets that he could easily take the writer.

"I'm joking Dad," Alexis laughs, drawing a fierce glare from her father. "I was just playing a little joke on him."

"Him or me?" Castle wonders aloud, as Samantha chuckles.

"Any particular reason why you are wound so tightly, Mr. Castle?" his old friend asks, tapping him on the shoulder, her voice dripping with mock sarcasm.

"Is this part of your psychology-for-dummies therapy as well, Dr. Peraza?" he shoots back with a smile.

"Well, you do have the 'for dummies' part right," she quips back.

"Quit while you're ahead, Dad," Alexis warns. "You're not going to win any arguments. Not today."

"And why not," he asks, indignant but smiling.

"Because this afternoon is not about you, in case you forgot," his daughter replies.

"Oh, I don't think he's forgotten, Alexis," Samantha laughs. "At least not if the sweat marks under his arms are any indication."

"Antiperspirant my ass," the writer mutters, then glances at his daughter who, of course, has heard far worse.

"Sorry, pumpkin," he offers meekly.

"Relax, Dad," Alexis tells him. "This is what you have wanted, chased after, for . . . for . . . well, for a lot longer than any of us care to remember," she finishes with a smile, and a kiss on the cheek.

"You look dashing, by the way," she adds.

"Why thank you, lass," he smiles, falling back into his role, finding great comfort there. He wears black slacks, with a cream colored shirt with wide, long-sleeved arms. The top three buttons of the shirt are unbuttoned, and the long, silver sword glistens in the sunlight, sheathed in his belt loop.

"Cool sword, too," Alexis comments.

"Look familiar to you?" he chuckles.

"Should it?" she counters, knowing exactly the identity of said sword.

"Yes, you should, seeing how it has been the source of envy for you, as well as countless defeats. And I do mean countless. I have lost count of how many times I have defeated you, my young maiden."

"I suppose Kate has my sword," Alexis muses aloud, and despite herself, is pleased to hear her father's reply.

"Gosh no, pumpkin," he begins. "That sword is yours, and yours alone. I could no more easily part with my arm than to give away the source of so many victories . . . er, I mean memories with my lovely daughter."

"Nice try," she tells him. But his words have hit their mark.

"Thanks, Dad," she tells him.

"Don't mention it," he tells her. He turns to Samantha, who quickly unsheathes a sword from behind her back.

"Samantha brought yours as well," he smiles, both from the surprise he has shared and the reaction he sees on the face of the woman who has – for two decades – been the most important person in his world.

"And believe me, we have yet to have our final match – trust me on that," he tells her.

"Speaking of the bride, where is she?" Samantha asks, glancing back to the house.

"She's just about ready," Alexis replies, regaining her composure. When I left, she was having a final few words with Jim . . . with her father."

"Is she nervous?" her father asks.

"No, I don't think nervous is the word for it," Alexis smiles. "I'd say more anxious than anything else. And Dad?"

"Yes, pumpkin," he replies.

"She looks absolutely gorgeous," Alexis smiles, and her smile broadens as she sees her father's face light up. It's been such a long summer, and fall so far for her dad. She glances at the woman next to him, offering up a silent prayer of thanks for her – and for the help she has been able to give her father.

He cranes his neck to see around his daughter, looking toward the house.

"Uh uh uh," Samantha peppers him, turning him by the shoulders back toward the shore. "You get to see her soon enough."

"Now is soon enough for me," he tells the good doctor. He turns his gaze toward the lines of chairs behind them, which are now starting to fill up. There are only two rows of chairs, with a smile make shift walkway posing as an aisle. Each row has four chairs on each side of the aisle, for a total of sixteen chairs. Had they wanted to, they could have filled up a church. But any desire like that was snuffed out some four months ago.

Today, a small wedding with only their closest friends and families – brought her to their hidden hideaway – this has become the storybook wedding that Castle has always wanted and Kate has readily agreed to.

"A pirate wedding," Alexis muses with satisfaction. "So you, Dad . . . so you."


	9. Chapter 9

**Recluse: Chapter 9**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Saturday afternoon – September 27, 2014, 4:03 p.m., Castle's Island Home in Connecticut**_

"I love you, Dad," she tells Jim Beckett, who stands admiring his daughter, unable to keep the emotion from his eyes.

"I love you, too, Katie," the older man manages to get out. Somehow his beautiful daughter is a bit blurry to him, as he wipes the moisture from his eyes.

"Oh Dad, don't get me started," she half laughs. "If I go out their sniffling with red eyes, he may change his mind."

"That man wouldn't change his mind if you walked out there on a peg leg, Katie," Jim quips.

"Oh man, that would have been so outstanding if I had thought of that!" she utters in disappointment. "Do you know how much he would have loved that!?"

"What I know," her dad notices out loud, "is that this is your day, the day little girls dream about . . . and yet you're thinking about how to make it better for him," he says, throwing his thumb over his shoulder towards the door.

"Anything wrong with that?" she asks, smiling.

"All you have to do to make it better for Rick is just to show up, Katie," he tells her. He means it, as he knows the man outside would marry her in a phone booth if necessary. But he also knows that a private island, with a sleek boat in tow is far better than a phone booth.

"You look so . . . gosh, Kate, you look so beautiful," he says softly. "Johanna would be speechless to see you like this."

For a brief instant, sadness overcomes the two, as they consider how different today would be if just one more person were able to be here. Fortunately, the thought of Johanna brings to mind another reason she so loves the man outside.

"Did I ever tell you, Dad, about the first time Rick and I talked about a wedding . . . how we would want it to be?"

"Not sure you did, princess," he replies, drawing a smile from the term she grew up hearing often from a much younger version of the man next to her.

She leans back on the counter, pulling up the long, billowing train that balloons outward in three directions. The fourth, on her right side, is cut high, midway up her thigh. She makes a conscious effort to stay to right of her father. The white dress is complemented by a red, under-bust corset bustier, and a matching red jacket. She wears a white, wide-brimmed hat that is tilted at a forty-five degree angle.

"We were thinking about possibilities, different venues," she begins. "And you know Rick, always wanting to make a game of everything."

"Pirate wedding? Nope, I have no idea what you are talking about," he laughs, drawing her laughter into his own.

"He had this idea for each of us to make a list. We'd come up with the best five places we could choose to get married, and whichever locales were on both of our list made the final cut," she smiles, remembering that evening some five or six months ago.

"Might as well flip a coin," Jim muses aloud, shaking his head in wonderment.

"That's another story, I will tell you about that one in a minute," she laughs out loud, shaking her head as well.

"But for this story – well, we both grab a piece of paper, and start on our list. As it turns out, it wasn't as easy to do if you are really taking it seriously – which we both were doing. Anyway, it ended up taking a good glass of wine between both of us."

He nods his head, totally enthralled not with the story, but with the youthful exuberance in which his daughter tells the tale. He offers yet another round of thanks upward toward the skies at his baby girl finally finding the right man . . . finally finding the man who might give her the same happiness that Johanna had given him.

"So, we finish this list," Kate continues, "and we exchange the lists. Take a wild guess – and Dad, when I say wild, I mean out-of-his-mind wild guess as to the very first bullet on his list."

"You've got me, Katie," he smiles. "I don't think my mind even wants to go searching where Rick Castle's mind dwells."

They both laugh, and she looks at his with glistening eyes.

"Mom's gravesite," she tells him softly, bringing utter and complete silence to the room. He can only stare at her, knowing that she is serious, and – knowing what he sees in Richard Castle – he also knows that the writer was deadly serious when he put that on his list. And in the number one spot, no less.

"I . . . I don't know what to say," he finally gets out.

"I didn't either," she reminiscences, her eyes staring at him, through him, with a faraway look. "He had said – and I quote – don't you think your mother would want to come?"

Their silence lasts another few seconds . . . which turn into a half minute before the older man finally breaks through.

"Well, in that same vein . . . I bet she thinks you look stunning today," Jim tells her. "I know she can see you, and I know she is happy for you. As am I."

"Thanks, Dad," she says softly, stepping away from the counter, and into a warm hug from her father. At that moment, Lanie walks down the hallway into the front room, finding her way into the kitchen. Both Kate and Jim smile, struggling not to allow a smile to grow into anything more . . . audible.

"Don't you dare, girl," Lanie warns, and Kate realizes the woman is only half kidding. "And you'd better consummate the deal quickly with writer boy, because I _am_ going to kill him for this," she hisses.

The medical examiner wears a short, eighteenth century jumper over a flowing, balloon-armed blouse. The hunter green dress falls some eight or nine inches short of Lanie's knees. The white blouse is designed to highlight her ample . . . well, Javier will be busy during the ceremony. A green feather cap completes her attire, along with dark brown suede boots that rises up some two or three inches below her knees.

"You look . . ."

"Father of the bride or not, it is important you don't complete that sentence," Lanie warns, and finally the laughter that has been surfing just below the surface erupts from Kate and Jim Beckett.

Seconds later, an irritated but still excited Lanie Parrish walks toward the front door, turning to look back at the father and daughter.

"Well, come on . . . let's not keep the savages waiting," she tells them as she opens the door and walks out.

Jim, still chuckling, looks at his daughter, taking her hands into his own. He brings them to his lips, placing a soft kiss on each hand.

"Thank you, Katie," he tells her, his voice strong, hiding the emotions simmering there.

"For what, Dad?" she asks, clearly confused.

"For giving me a happy day that I didn't think I would feel again," he tells her honestly, as he grabs her lightly by the arm.

"Now . . . let's go take that walk I have dreamed about for about three decades, Princess," he tells her. Her eyes starting to mist, she falls into step with him as they head toward the open door.

"I love you, Katie."

"I love you, Dad."


	10. Chapter 10

**Recluse: Chapter 10**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Saturday afternoon – September 27, 2014, 4:30 p.m., Castle's Island Home in Connecticut**_

The speakers that adorn the small, sandy beach have just begun to play the processional. Okay, so it's not the processional that she imagined as a small girl . . . but neither is the man who stands some seventy-five or so feet ahead of her, close to the surf.

The frivolous violin music that fills the speakers brings smiles to the small cast of characters invited to what will later be known as 'that damn pirate wedding'. A small breeze kicks up, providing the most perfect atmosphere for the nautically themed event.

Sadly, for the past couple of minutes, since he watched his daughter take her seat in the front row, Richard Castle's mind has been a jumbled mess. This should be the happiest day of his life – the day when he finally is watching the woman he has loved for many years now make that long, beautiful walk toward him and their new life. However, the second Alexis spun brightly and went to her seat, the assault began. And try as he might, he cannot keep his mind from another island.

It's been a couple of weeks since the daydream attacks have hit like this. Of course it would hit today, to ruin the day, to damper his spirits. The cheerful violins that kick up an old pirate tune from a movie he is trying to place bring his focus back to the present. Fortunately, he is able to shake the haunting thoughts away the second he sees her exit the house, arm in arm with her father.

His breath catches in his throat. A shudder runs through him as he realizes that this feeling – this giddy, nervous itch – is somehow familiar and yet, different at the same time.

He's done this twice before. But something is different this time. And no, it's not just the music or the colorful garb surrounding him. It's not even the butterflies that have exploded inside his belly, on cue.

No, this time, as he sees her walking up the makeshift sandy aisle, strung with colorful flowers brought in from the mainland, his thoughts are different. He sees her face just a bit more clearly with each step. But her face is morphing now. One step, and she is stepping out of the shower, wrapped in a towel. The next step, she is laughing as they bump hips over the stove, cooking pasta. The next step, she is smiling pensively at him as he types on his laptop. The next step she is underneath him, her eyes filled with lust and anticipation. With each step, he sees a different Kate Beckett – a different vision not of their past – but of what might be in the future. He is seeing visions of their future.

" _That's the difference,"_ he thinks to himself, almost saying it out loud. He smiles, realizing that all of his thoughts are of the future with this woman, not the past, as his thoughts were in two previous settings like this.

The first woman he watched walk toward him in this manner wore a slight bump in her belly. It is telling to him now that he only saw Meredith in the past tense as she approached him, given the additional life that was taking each step with her.

The second woman who made this walk . . . well, she too he saw only in past visions. Book tours, book signings, book negotiations. Everything focused around his work, around past memories. He should have recognized that one right away.

This third woman, however – all of his thoughts are new – of the future that has yet to occur. A future that he knows he will write with her. And this time, he's going to be a better author, he's going to write a better story, a happier ending.

Scratch that – he is going to write a better story with _no_ ending.

He glances over at the two men sitting opposite the aisle of his own daughter. Jenny and Kevin hold hands, smiling at their own memories. Javier Esposito is trying very, very hard to keep his eyes peeled on the woman walking towards Castle. Fortunately his back is to Castle – and so the writer cannot see the occasional downward peeks Espo makes toward the ample and slightly exposed gifts of the woman standing next to him.

"You're gonna lose those eyes in a second," Lanie whispers.

"Yeah, you really want me to stop looking, don't you?" he teases, earning him a soft punch in the arm, as she shushes him into silence.

Kate is now only ten feet from the chairs now, and Lanie can only smile at the brashness and boldness of the entire affair. These two never did anything the traditional way – why would anyone think they would start now? No, this is absolutely the perfect way for this couple to be joined, and her thoughts melt away as she watches her best friend walk past her, giving her a quick glance of happily dancing eyes.

Kate continues her walk glancing to her left at Victoria Gates and her husband. Finally, she sees the beaming eyes of two redheads, an entire skipped generation between the two.

Now only six to eight feet from her future husband, she tightens her grip on her father's arm, unsure of what this feeling is.

"You love him," her father reminds her in a hushed whisper, and that final word from her father is all she needs. Her smile is bright and infectious. It slays the man waiting for her, on the spot.

Any softness, any romantic gesture possible is lost with the first words barreling forth from the baritone-voiced priest next to Castle.

"Ahoy, ye lasses and ladies, all ye drunken slobs and innocent wenches – we be gathered here this day to bear witness to a truly lovely moment" the voice almost shouts. The giggles and chuckles that pass through the small gathering grows with each statement read.

Judge Henry Patterson is an old friend of Jim Beckett's, who Jim knew professionally from their time in court. However, the judge and lawyer developed a more personal friendship at an AA meeting. Henry, or Hank as Jim likes to call him, stepped down from the bench some ten years ago after predictably losing the battle to alcohol after losing his own wife. The now retired judge and ex-lawyer share a bond that Castle and Kate can understand, but never truly appreciate – as losing one's spouse is an entirely different animal than losing one's parent.

Hank is roughly sixty or so years old, and he reads from his notes, his spectacles sitting atop the bridge of his nose. When Jim had asked him for this favor – under the strictest condition that he would never share the identity of the couple, or their location – Jim knew he was throwing the ex-judge a huge bucket-list bone. After all, the list of guys not interested in playing pirate for a day is a short one, indeed. And even though he is reading from a prepared script – Jim knows his old friend is having one of the best days of his recent life.

"If there be any person or persons here that hold strong objections to said union, o'course, save the redhead here – "

"Oh, is he talking about me?" Martha wonders aloud, drawing a turn of the head from both Rick and Kate, and a shake of the head from the younger, intended target.

"I thought not," the judge continues. "T'day, tis a day to truly celebrate, mateys. For it be love here that we be joinin' this evenin'. So, who 'ives this lassie away t'day?"

"Uh, that would be me," Jim Beckett states with a smile, immediately realizing his faux paus.

"What kind of pirate be ye, matey, speakin' such a misguided dialect?" Patterson asks his old friend, bringing a chuckle to Castle and Kate.

Without warning, Castle unsheathes his sword, and slowly brings it across the chest of Jim Beckett, where a necklace holding two rings hangs around the older man's neck. He picks up the stringed necklace, eyes locked on Kate's father.

"Methinks I be needin' these more than ye, good sir," Castle tell his almost-father-in-law. The elder Beckett smiles as he reaches up, lifting the necklace over his head, watching Castle catch the chain on his sword. In one smooth motion, he drops the sword toward the ground, allowing the chain to fall neatly into Kate's waiting hand. He continues the motion back upward, quickly sheathing the weapon in one fluid motion.

"Show off," Javier whispers, earning himself another elbow to the ribs. He smiles, knowing he will never admit it to the writer, but he, too, is having one of the best days ever – and at a wedding no less, usually a decidedly off-limits affair for the happily single man.

The two rings from the necklace now firmly in her hand, Kate extends her hand to Castle, who reaches down and takes the feminine mate to the diamond already on her finger. He slides the ring on to her finger, joining the two. She responds in kind, taking the platinum ring – no diamonds, no studs – just as he wanted – and slides it on his finger. He smiles, looking down at the new piece of jewelry, wondering two things: How was she able to obtain it so quickly – after all, he had already put an engagement ring on her finger months ago. When did she buy this piece? And second, he is struggling to recall if he ever talked to her about his love for platinum.

The wind suddenly kicks up, causing the women to grab for the hats, scarves and bandanas gracing their head. The rest of the judge's words, although humorous to the guests, are unheard by the couple in front of him. They stares at rings and eyes – only now comprehending that they have made it. The universe has thrown them curve after curve – yet here they stand.

Kate is reminded of words the Castle spoke to her just a few nights ago. They were words that were spoken about himself and his current situation, as well as about them as a couple.

" _Samantha reminded me of something that I have always believed – and I still do – that we all are here for a purpose,"_ he had told her while they laid in bed. _"And I think all of the mistakes we make, all of the dumb things we do, all of the great victories we have as well as the defeats – they are all built into this great plan, this great purpose. That's what keeps me going right now, Kate. That's what keeps me sane. Knowing that what I have gone through, knowing that what I am going through – none of this will keep me from fulfilling what I am supposed to do on this planet. They're built into the plan. Yeah, I have to live with consequences, but the consequences don't change why I am here."_

" _That's an interesting philosophy, Castle_ ," Kate had told him, marveling at his ability to find the optimistic road in virtually any journey.

" _That's also why I have never given up on us, Kate,"_ he had confided, raising his head from the pillow, sitting up on one elbow, facing her. She had continued to lay on her pillow, gazing up and to the side at him as he continued.

" _If I believe this – and I do – then I also know that every struggle we have faced, every hurt we gave each other, every argument, every miscommunication, every tear – those, along with every good time, every laugh, every kiss – those, too were built into the purpose that is us. That's why I can never give up on us, Kate. Why I can never give up on you."_

" _Then don't give up on yourself either, Rick,"_ she had admonished, softly. _"Stop beating yourself up. If you really believe this, then you have to also believe that nothing that happened on that island, or out in the ocean – none of that changes who you are, or why you are here . . . right? That's what it means, doesn't it?"_

" _Who's the teacher and who's the student again?"_ he had chuckled.

" _Well, we'll always get along better once you figure that one out once and for all,"_ she had told him, playfully slapping his arm.

He senses where her mind is at the moment, and leans in and whispers to her, drawing a loving gaze from her.

"Everywhere we have been . . . all built into the great plan that is you and I, Kate," he whispers softly.

Minutes later, there are instructions to kiss, a whoop is released by the small party, and rice is thrown their way. Congratulations are given, hugs and kisses shared, a small meal consumed. There are playful swordfights and some ill-advised play on the makeshift plank Castle has temporarily installed on the Stormy Heat.

Meanwhile, Castle leads Kate on a short adventure, map in her hand.

"I buried this weeks ago, figuring it would be a fun afternoon for you and I some day in the future. I never anticipated that a search for treasure would actually become part of our wedding celebration."

"Only you, Castle," she laughs. "I would have thought with a beautiful boat anchored less than thirty yards away, we would have set sail by now, off on our romantic honeymoon."

"Well, first of all, detective," he chides, smiling, "it's a motor craft, not a sail boat."

"Tomato, tomahto," she replies, echoing a phrase she has often heard from him . . . or his mother.

'Touche," he offers. "Still, you have to admit that –"

"No, Castle, believe me, this is fun," she admits readily. "Not many girls get to say they have this."

"Well, good, I'm glad you feel that way," he tells her with his typical smirk. "Now stop talking and keep track of your steps. I'd like to find the bloody thing before nightfall."


	11. Chapter 11

**Recluse: Chapter 11**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Wednesday afternoon – October 22, 2014, 2:07 p.m., New York City, at Former Senator William Bracken's Residence**_

"We're late, Will – kick it into gear!"

Sheila Elizabeth Bracken stands, impatiently at the front door while her husband sits on the small chair in the foyer, changing shoes . . . for the third time this evening, and they aren't even out the door yet.

"I swear, Will, you are such a woman sometimes," she tells him, at once reconsidering her words.

"If he were a woman, he wouldn't have been in such a mess," she reminds herself. He has all of the ambition, and none of the necessary stones to do what always needs to be done. Fortunately for him, his wife cares about power – and nothing else. She doesn't care that very few realize who the power broker is in the couple. All that concerns her is that the vision she has, the strategy she put into place over a decade ago is still moving forward, despite the considerable speed bump that was William Bracken's incarceration.

Bracken had lost his senate seat while behind bars, his party leaving him to rot in hell without so much as a 'we are here for you, Bill'. Known for her long memory, she has added a few names to her running list of people to completely and utterly tear asunder . . . at the right time, of course.

Despite the loss, the high visibility of his release and exoneration had party-members running back to the fold, desperate to return their most popular, potential white house candidate to his proper position – to which Bracken had politely refused.

Politely in public, that is. Privately, Elizabeth Bracken steamed at the perceived betrayal, instead urging her husband – urging, of course, being a polite term – to step into the 2014 gubernatorial race as an Independence Party candidate. Riding the sympathy wave of ever-forgiving New Yorkers, he is running ahead in the polls, capturing 52% of the projected voters, easily distancing himself from the Democratic, Republican and Conservative Party candidates. In two weeks, he and Elizabeth are expecting inserting themselves into the two month inaugural planning process.

Her thoughts trail back to Ronald Reagan and George W. Bush on the Republican side and Bill Clinton on the Democratic side. All three rode popular terms as governors of their respective states into successful, multi-term White House stints. Ex-Senator or not, the plan for Will was always the presidency. That plan is still intact – and in fact – possibly more in sight now with potential experience as a U.S. Senator and a state governor.

" _Let's not put the cart in front of horse, just yet,"_ she thinks to herself. _"Two more weeks before we pop the corks."_

Her priority right now – and yeah, maybe it _is_ slightly ill-advised as her husband suggests – but her mind today, as always, continues to meander back to 'that bitch Kate Beckett', the bane of their very existence from Elizabeth's point of view.

Okay, sure, she _did_ kill the detective's mother. But Johanna Beckett made the mistake of getting in the way of an elaborate plan. Many people have made similar mistakes with Elizabeth, and all have taken the same journey that the elder Beckett found herself traveling. And parents die all the time – every day. It's not like her mother was going to live forever. She shakes her head, as she often has, wondering why the damn detective couldn't do what millions of human beings do after a parent dies.

Move on. Live your life. Make them proud.

But this crazy vendetta of Beckett's has gone too far. Stripping her husband of his office, his position, his reputation – potentially ending her . . . correct that . . . _his_ White House plans. And jail? Actually sending him to jail, then smugly sitting in her perfect little loft, paid for by her handsome boyfriend. Of course the detective couldn't even be original. At the end of the day, after all her posturing, fastest female detective and all that crap – she lives with her boyfriend? And can't even control him?

No, Kate Beckett has to pay. Getting Will out of jail was just the first step. Re-igniting his political career was the second. And now, because of . . . circumstances . . . he is back on the fast track to Pennsylvania Avenue.

Step three?

Re-pay Kate Beckett. For almost managing to undo more than a decade of planning. For causing continual stress in the life of Mrs. William Bracken. For leaving that damn scar on Will's face.

The problem, of course, is _finding_ the detective. The official word is that she is on a leave of absence. The usually-more-accurate unofficial word is that perhaps it started out that way, but her continued absence from the city has turned into more Kate's choice than anyone else's. And no one knows where she is. History suggests, as Elizabeth recalls, that the detective knows how to disappear when she wants to. So drawing her back out into the open is the most agreeable tactic she is considering.

Elena tends to agree with her.

She gazes across the foyer in their posh New York City residence at the stunning Russian, who sits stands silently next to her still-sitting, preening husband. In another life, she may actually worry about the European, worry that she could have designs on Will. In this life, however, she knows that first and foremost, Elena is a lethal weapon. Nothing more. A weapon they have turned loose many times, always with complete and ruthless success.

Moreover, she knows that Elena will always do their bidding. Her bidding. It is always nice to have leverage.

"Today, Will," she taps impatiently.

"I'm coming, love," he tells her with disarming patience. Damn the man, he is a cool one. It's why he is the perfect choice.

"This fundraiser, it starts at 3pm, yes?" Elena asks quietly.

"Yes, in less than an hour," Elizabeth replies. "Which means we have to get going. You have to get going. It has to be timed perfectly, Elena. We can't have –"

"It is not necessary to tell me how to do what I do," Elena interrupts darkly. Leverage or no, she will not be spoken to in this manner.

" _Perhaps someday – soon – Mrs. Bracken will need to learn this,"_ she thinks to herself, filing yet another chit away.

If Elizabeth senses the tension she has caused, she does not let on. Instead, she continues focusing on her husband who is finally pulling himself to his feet, and walking to the door.

He offers his wife a kiss on the cheek, and then a deeper kiss on the lips. Damn the man, and what he can do to her.

"Okay, Will, okay," she says breathlessly, pulling away. "We need to get going. There will always be time for that tonight," she promises. She then turns to Elena.

"As you planned, then, Ele-"

She cuts her sentence off, frustrated that the assassin has pulled yet another quick disappearing act.

"I will have to learn how she does that," Elizabeth tells her husband.

"Why worry," he replies, with a smile. "She is good at what she does."

"The best," his wife agrees.

"And she will draw the detective out into the open in her own way," he continues. "She has never failed us, never disappointed us."

"You're right, of course," she tells him. "I just . . . I don't like not knowing what her plan is, what she is thinking about doing."

"Nor do you need to know, love," he reminds her. "Plausible deniability. Besides – this way, you and I will be as surprised as anyone – publicly of course – with whatever she ends up doing. Best this way, Liz. You know this."

She doesn't comment, but nods her head as they walk out of the door, shutting it behind them. Seconds later they are at the elevator, on the way down to the ground floor to pick up his limousine that will take them to the ballroom some fifteen blocks away.

Meanwhile, a beautiful, lithe figure slides down the fire-ladder outside the building, down two floors to the ground, where she dusts herself off and walks away, humming a tune in Russian.

 _ **Later that night – October 22, 2014, 11:01 p.m., at Rick and Kate's island home in Connecticut**_

"I never want to leave," she whispers happily, fully content in the moment as she lays in his arms. She feels his chin rubbing on her forehead, picturing his motions and smiling.

"Then don't, Mrs. Castle," he tells her softly.

"I like the sound of that," she replies, wiggling in closer.

"What – Mrs. Castle?" he replies playfully. Yeah, he loves that name as well. It has taken long enough, that's for certain.

Their attention is drawn to the television, to the opening story on the news broadcast this evening. Their smiles dissipate with each word from the anchorwoman.

" _We open our story tonight with a sense of déjà vu,"_ she begins. _"A brutal murder this afternoon, followed by a second murder this evening – and all evidence points to a single person perpetrating these acts. We go now live to Ramona Vasquez in uptown."_

" _Thank you Andrea,"_ Ramona begins _. "Both murders occurred here uptown, both in known mob establishments – and both occurred, according to reports – in the men's restrooms of both establishments. The victims – whose names are being withheld at this time – both suffered deep slash wounds across the throat – and both, believe it or not, were found with this paper note stapled to their chests. Our viewers will recall that this M.O. was ruthlessly used five months ago during the disappearance of author Richard Castle. In the past months, the author once again has gone missing, and once again, someone is using what can only be described as guerilla tactics to find the missing novelist."_

Ramona holds up the paper for viewers to see, and the haunting words cause Rick and Kate to bolt upright from their bedtime cuddling.

 _ **Where is Richard Castle? Someone knows!**_

 **A/N:** As always, thank you for following me on this journey. As I stated in the initial author note in Chapter 1, this was part 2 of a trilogy. I will start posting the final installment, _**Triumphant**_ , after the holidays.

Merry Christmas everyone. Be safe this holiday season.

\- Aalon


End file.
